


Fallen Dreams

by harnatano (orphan_account)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, mention of curufin/curufin's wife, mentions of Celebrimbor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5549579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/harnatano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin.</p><p>Menegroth, during the second Kinslaying, after Celegorm's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen Dreams

There would be nothing left. A dream maybe, a glint of hope in the darkness. The reflection of his sharp smile in the steel of his blade.  
Nothing more.

For there was nothing to hold on. When everything blurred and fell around, when the earth itself seemed to crack and swell beneath his feet. There was nothing more.

And the dream would come to its end.  
It was written, was it not?

Now Curufin couldn’t see his face in the steel anymore, for it was digged in the flesh of the unfortunate Sinda in front of him.

_Die.  
And let me die._

His own body was already pierced. An arrow in his shoulder, his thigh mutilated by his enemies’ blades, his left side too… He could hardly breathe and jugding from the pain, a rib or two were broken. And yet, he didn’t wirthdraw, he held on, he fought and he killed, carried by his rage and by his determination. By his pain too. Tyelkormo had fallen. He had seen it. Witnessed it. He had heard the terrible sound of his brother’s body as he had reached the ground. He had seen the colors of his face fade away, and he had felt his Fëa leave.

Tyelkormo had fallen.  
Tyelkormo was gone.  
Tyelkormo had left him.

As they had all done.

His mother first, who had refused, bluntly, to follow them. Followed by his wife. When she had accused his madness, his father’s madness, the folly of his family when the Oath had been taken. His wife he had trust, for many years she had been his closest friend, and her accusation, her refusal had appeared as the most devatasting betrayal.

His father had left then. Leaving him with his duties, with his legacy, with the burden of his own terrible chains. The mental prison Curufin had locked himself in, where his father had always appeared as a radiant figure of glory and hope, had become a pit of desperation. He had left, in an explosion of pain and torments.

Irissë too, had prefered the shadows of Nan Elmoth to his presence, to the safety, the friendship and comfort he could have offered. Another friend lost. Another wound upon his soul.

After the loss of Himlad, the shame and the atrocity of the failure, Nargothrond had been another prison. But this one, Curufin had tried to embrace, to control, to make his own. In the end, he had only brought another fall. His own fall.

Felagund had left too. Felagund had prefered to run to his own death, and Curufin hadn’t prevented it. There had been no wish to prevent it.

And Tyelperinquar.

Another enemy fell onto him, and with a loud cry of rage and despair, Curufin slew him mercilessly. He heard a crack; his ribs. He felt the flesh on his shoulder being torn by the arrow… He should pluck it out, and he tried, but before he could reach out for it, a new wave of assailants ran to him, and through pain and fury, Curufin fought.

He would fight until his last breath. For the Silmaril. For the Oath. For his father and his brothers who had already given their lives in its name. Withdrawing now would be treachery, cowardice and weakness. An insult.

Should he die… he would die. Gladly. He would suffer. Hopefully. For there was nothing in Arda which could overcome the wounds that covered his heart, except maybe the wounds which would cover his body.

Pain and darkness. There was no hope there, and yet, he started to long for them.

Blow after blow, war cries merging with the cries of pain, blood blinding him as much as his rage, he barely felt the blade which pierced him. It’s only when he looked down and saw it that he understood. The steel was passing through his abdomen, and the wave of blood which suddenly reached the back of his throat sufficed to make him realize what was happening. Before the Elf in front of him could remove his sword, another arrow reached the Noldo’s back, and Curufin gasped, blinked, motionless and suddenly so cold. He looked into the Sinda’s eyes, and with a sudden jolt of energy, he beheaded him.

One step backwards, followed by a second one. And he collapsed. The blade was still there, the arrows were still there, but all he could see now was the red of his blood and the darkness of his life. Of what remained of his life.

Tyelperinquar. Where was he? Was he safe? Happy? The distance between them… had it saved him? As for Curufin, this very distance had been a slow destruction, a dark wave which had carefully covered his sanity.

Yes, Tyelperinquar had left him too. Just like his mother, his wife, his father, his cousins and his brothers. But Curufin had brought it upon himself, had he not? 

Now that the sweet veil of death was gently falling upon him, and through his last breaths, as agony and pain filled his very being, Curufin had one thought in mind. One memory. One needle out of the mess of his past; How he had driven his son away. How he had refused to let his son witness his madness, his darkness, his sins. How he had battled to keep Tyelperinquar away from his insanity.

He had brought it upon himself. This he could understand now. This he could see. In his folly, Curufin had done what his love had begged him to do; he had kept his son safe, away from him and from his faults.

And it was certainly better this way.

Tyelperinquar had become one of them, one of those who had abandoned him, and he had done it for his own good.

The aching thought of his own misery was boiling in his heart when he heard a familiar voice above him. Oh, he couldn’t see anymore, but he recognized the voice and he could imagine the red of Maitimo’s hair falling upon him.

It is over now, brother. I failed. I have lost everything.

Maitimo’s words he could not hear, for death, it is known, brings deafness as much as blindness. There were words that needed to be said, but there was only blood now upon Curufin’s tongue. Blood and the acrid taste of his sins. 

The pain he did not feel anymore. Slowly, he could feel himself slipping away, though it seemed his Fëa was still clinging, sturbbornly, to the last sparkle of life. Oh no, it wasn’t determination that kept him alive, only the foolishness of a soul that had lost everything and which would find no release through death. Death meant nothing. Death would bring nothing.

And the dream he had been slipping in would vanish like a fragil flame blown away by the wind. 

What hope was left now, for him? Now that he had erased the best part of himself. His memory wouldn’t even survive through his son, for his son didn’t need his memory to live on. His son had witnessed and discovered that the man he had called ‘father’ was nothing but the disappointing soul Curufin had always feared to become.

And yet, that was who he was, what he was. A falling soul covered with blood, a failure, and what would be remembered of him would be so different from the dreams he had had once. The only dream which would live on had a name, but this dream had escaped him many years before.

And when after many struggles his Fëa finally gave in and left, this very name, this dream, was still dancing on Curufin’s lips.

_Tyelperinquar._


End file.
